Immoral

by Brian Freeman

  “You’re pretty calm about the divorce,” Stride said. “Is that an act?”

  She stared at him. “Yeah.”

  A few streaks of water appeared on the windows. Stride could see texture in the rain, a light mix of sleet and snow. They heard the patter increasing on the wooden roof above their heads and the whip of wind against the house. The frame rumbled. He reached for the pitcher of margaritas and refilled their glasses.

  Andrea swirled the ice in her drink. A sad smile crossed her lips.

  “I had to visit my sister in Miami. Denise had just had a baby. I got back, and there was a note. He needed some time alone, he said. To write. To ‘find himself creatively’ again. He never had the courage to call me. Not once. Just postcards. Goddamn postcards, for the whole world to see. Next thing I know, he’s in Yellowstone. Then Seattle. He’s still writing great stuff. But somewhere along the way, he’s realized that he just can’t be himself around me anymore. That I’m stifling his genius. So maybe it’s better if we call it quits.”

  “Shit,” Stride murmured.

  “It took five weeks and ten postcards for Robin to officially declare our marriage over and tell me he’d met someone else in San Francisco. On the back was a photo of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stride said.

  “That’s okay. I don’t miss him so much as I hate being alone.”

  “It’s the little things I miss,” Stride murmured. “I’m cold in the mornings. Sometimes I wake up and try to roll over to get close to Cindy, like I used to. She’d always complain about my cold hands, but she was like a heater warming me up. But she’s not there anymore. So I lie there freezing.”

  He heard his words die away. He was aware of the lingering silence. Without Andrea asking, he knew she wanted him to tell her more. Earlier, in a passing comment, he had mentioned Cindy’s death, not going into detail, not wanting to cast her shadow over their evening. Andrea reacted with shock and grief, but like everyone else, she had no idea what to say or how to comfort him.

  Even one little detail, a memory of warming up next to her in bed, made him want to tell all his stories. But he was stubbornly silent.

  It was now actively snowing outside. The streaks of ice, slowly slipping down the window glass, obscured the view. Stride glanced at the Parsons table next to the chaise and realized the pitcher of margaritas was empty. He glanced at his watch but couldn’t read the time in the shadows.

  “You have succeeded,” Andrea declared finally.

  “At what?”

  “I am now drunk. Thank you.”

  Stride nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  Andrea looked over at him. Or he thought she did. He could barely see her.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Do you want to fuck me?”

  It was the kind of question that called for an immediate answer, although this was the first time since Cindy died that Stride had faced it. He knew what half a pitcher of margaritas and his stiffening crotch told him to do, but he still felt unfaithful. “Yes, I do.”

  “But?” she said, hearing it in his voice.

  “But I’m drunk, and I don’t know if I can, uh, rise to the occasion.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You haven’t had sex since she died.”

  “Nope.”

  Andrea slid out of the wicker chair. She staggered to her feet. “Tough,” she said.

  Stride didn’t move. He watched her hike up her skirt and yank down the black stockings and floral panties underneath. She peeled them off and tossed them aside. She was a real blonde, with a wispy patch of pubic hair nestling between her slim thighs. With clumsy fingers, she undid the buttons of her blouse, then unsnapped the bra inside. She pushed aside the fabric, exposing her small breasts with erect pink nipples.

  Andrea bent over him and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. Her fingers squirmed inside his pants and found his erection.

  “Looks like you rose to the occasion.”

  “Looks like it.”

  She extracted his penis with some difficulty. In one swift motion, she swung her leg over the chaise and straddled him. Using one hand to spread her vaginal lips, and the other to hold his cock, she lowered herself onto him. Stride felt his penis sinking into her wet folds, and he groaned.

  “You like?”

  “I like.”

  “Good.”

  He reached up to her breasts and caressed her nipples with his fingertips.

  “Harder,” she said.

  He pinched them, then squeezed her whole breasts in his large hands. Andrea gave a loud shout of pleasure and sank forward, kissing him, forcing her tongue inside. Her buttocks rose and fell as she pumped up and down on top of him. Stride squeezed his hand onto her mound and found her clitoris and began to rub it in circles.

  The porch creaked and whined. So did the chaise, complaining under the pounding of their combined weight.

  Stride felt himself swelling. She was bringing him quickly to a marvelous, drunken orgasm. And it looked like she was having one, too. Her head rose back, and she had a wild smile on her face. Stride leaned forward and took her nipple in his mouth. She held his head tightly against her breast. He licked and tugged at the nipple, and the feel of her erect areola on his tongue sent him over the edge. Stride’s hips rose up to meet her as he spasmed. He came with his mouth still closed over her breast. Strangely, Andrea started laughing.

  “God,” she murmured, half to herself. “And the bastard said I was cold in bed.”

  11

  “Well?” Maggie asked.

  She kicked the snow off her boots on the floor mat of Stride’s truck, then folded her arms and stared at him expectantly.

  “What?” Stride asked, smiling despite himself.

  Maggie whooped. She punched Stride in the arm. “I know that smile,” she said, beaming. “That’s the smile of a man who got lucky last night. Did I tell you? Was I right?”

  “Mags, give me a break.”

  “Come on, boss, details, details,” Maggie insisted.

  “All right, all right. We stayed up late, we got drunk, we ended up in bed. It was great. Are you satisfied?”

  “No, but you obviously are.”

  Stride shot her an irritated glance, then swung the truck out of the parking lot at Maggie’s building. The tires slipped on the fresh snow. Only a couple of inches of heavy, wet snow had fallen overnight, enough to make the roads treacherous but not enough to get the snowplows out of the garage. Stride blinked. His eyes were red.

  “So how do you feel?” Maggie asked.

  Stride clenched the wheel a little tighter and fluttered the brake as he edged up to a stop sign. “Guilty as hell, if you must know.”

  “Look, you’re not cheating on Cindy,” Maggie said. “She’d have been pissed off that you waited this long.”

  “I know,” Stride acknowledged. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But my heart doesn’t really believe it.”

  In fact, he had dreamed of Cindy, and then, when he had awakened and felt a warm presence next to him for the first time in a year, he had enjoyed a brief moment when he thought it really was Cindy beside him. In his drowsy state, he believed that the tragedy of the past year had been the real dream and that life was still sweet and normal. Then he saw Andrea, and he felt a twinge of sorrow. It wasn’t fair. Andrea was pretty and sweet. Her naked body, half exposed above the blanket, was arousing to him. But he had to blink back tears.

  “It was your first time,” Maggie said. “You’re back on the playing field. The more you date, the more comfortable you’ll get.”

  “Maybe. Andrea and I are getting together again tomorrow night.”

  Maggie smiled slyly. “Oh, yes? I get it. Once you take the gun out of the holster, you can’t stop firing, huh?”

  Stride shot her a sideways glance. “You’re crude, Mags. Who taught you to be so crude?”

  “You did.”

 
“Yeah, yeah,” Stride said, chuckling.

  “Just don’t get carried away, okay?” Maggie said. “You’re getting over Cindy’s death, and she’s getting over a divorce. You’re both on the rebound.”

  “When did you become the expert on relationships?” Stride asked sourly, regretting the edge in his voice.

  “Let’s just say I know a little about taking a fall, all right?”

  Stride said nothing. They drove on silently.

  Their destination was on the south end of the city. They passed close to the harbor on their left and crossed a web of railroad tracks that led in and out of the docks. There was little development down here, other than a few windowless saloons, off-sale liquor stores, and gas stations. Another mile took them to the outer edge of town, where a large cluster of older houses clung to the land near the interstate. Most of the houses dated back before the 1940s, when they were modest but comfortable units serving ship workers. The houses were mostly ramshackle now, and the neighborhood was a magnet for the handful of drug dealers who called Duluth home.

  “Marrying Graeme was quite a step up the social ladder for Emily,” Maggie said. “You have to give her credit for landing him. I wonder how she did it.”

  “Well, the good reverend says she was quite a dish just a few years ago.”

  “He said that?”

  “I’m paraphrasing. But Emily is obviously still close to Dayton, and it looks like he knows more about her and Rachel than just about anyone.”

  “But will he tell us anything?” Maggie asked.

  “He agreed to see us. That’s a start.”

  Stride navigated a series of snow-covered streets through the quiet neighborhood. The parked cars were lumps of little white hills to steer around on the narrow streets.

  The church in which Dayton Tenby served as pastor was a beachhead from which the neighbors were battling back crime and vandalism. The churchyard was meticulously clean and landscaped with neatly trimmed bushes, sporting white snowcaps, carefully planted across the wide lawn. There was a large swing set and a cedar jungle gym for children. The church itself boasted a fresh coat of paint and bright red trim around the tall narrow windows.

  They made the first set of tire tracks in the lot as they pulled in and parked. When they got out of the car, the air was crisp and cold. They kicked through the snow to the main door of the church. The wide lobby inside was chilly, with the heat vanishing into the high ceiling. They hugged themselves and looked around. Stride noticed a bulletin board crowded with notices about drug rehabilitation, abuse prevention, and counseling for divorce. In the middle of the board was a missing-person notice, with Rachel’s photo prominently displayed.

  “Hello?” Stride called.

  He heard movement somewhere in the church, then a muffled voice. A few seconds later, appearing out of the shadows of a long hallway, Dayton Tenby joined them in the lobby.

  Tenby wore a pair of dark dress slacks and a gray wool sweater with leather patches on the elbows. He greeted them with a nervous smile, and his handshake, as it had been when Stride first met him, was damp with sweat. His forehead, too, was lined with moisture. He had a yellow pad, crammed with spidery writing, under his arm and a pen wedged behind one ear.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” Tenby said. “I was in the midst of writing tomorrow’s sermon, so I’m a little distracted. Let’s go in the back where it’s warmer.”

  He guided them down the hall. Tenby’s church apartment was boxy and small, furnished in dark wood, with a large oil painting of Christ hung above the mantel of a modest fireplace. A fire burned there, making the room pleasantly warm. Dayton seated himself in a green upholstered chair by the fire and laid his yellow pad on the ornate end table beside it. He gestured at an antique, uncomfortable-looking sofa. Stride and Maggie sat down. Maggie fit perfectly, but Stride wriggled to find a position that suited his tall frame.

  “When we first met, you told me you thought Rachel had run away,” Stride said. “Do you still feel that way?”

  Tenby pursed his lips. “This is a long time to carry a joke, even for Rachel. I would never say so to the Stoners, but I’m beginning to fear this may be more than a childish game.”

  “But you have no idea what else it could be?” Maggie asked him.

  “No, I don’t. Do you feel she was abducted?”

  “We’re not ruling anything out,” Stride said. “Right now, we’re trying to find out more about Rachel’s relationships and her past. We’re trying to construct a picture of her. Since you’ve known her and her family for a long time, we thought you could help.”

  Tenby nodded. “I see.”

  “You sound reluctant,” Maggie said.

  He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s not reluctance, Detective. I’m trying to decide what I can say and what I can’t. There are things I’ve learned in my role as a religious advisor that naturally must remain confidential. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “You mean you counseled Rachel?” Stride asked.

  “Briefly. A long time ago. I’ve worked with Emily much more. She and I have tried to work through the problems with Rachel for many years. Without a great deal of success, I’m afraid.”

  “Anything you can tell us would help,” Maggie assured him.

  “In fact, I did talk about your visit with Emily,” Tenby said. “I had a suspicion this kind of topic might come up, you see. Emily was gracious and gave her permission for me to talk about our conversations freely. Naturally, I don’t have Rachel’s permission, but perhaps, under the circumstances, I would be doing a disservice to keep things hidden. Of course, I have to say that Rachel told me very little that shed much light on her soul.”

  “Maybe if you started at the beginning,” Stride suggested.

  “Yes, indeed. Well, you know that many of the problems between Emily and Rachel date back to her first marriage to Tommy Deese. He drove a wedge between Rachel and Emily, and the gap only widened after Tommy’s death. Of course, I only learned about most of this in retrospect. I knew both of them from church, but neither one made an effort to confide in me.”

  “They lived near here?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh, yes. Right down the street, in fact.”

  “Did Rachel have many friends?” Stride asked.

  Tenby drummed his fingers on the end table. “She was never really close to anyone. Except, perhaps, for Kevin. He always had quite the crush on her, but it was a one-way thing.”

  “This is the same Kevin who was with her in Canal Park on that last night? Kevin Lowry?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh, yes. Kevin and his family still live here. I expect he’ll be a lawyer or vice president someday, a real success story. I’m afraid his one weakness is Rachel. He always seemed to want to save her, but Rachel didn’t have much interest in being saved. Well, that’s all right, he’s better off with that girl Sally he’s dating now. I’m sorry, that sounds rather cold, doesn’t it? It’s not that I have any ill feelings toward Rachel, but she would never have been right for Kevin.”

  Maggie nodded. “I take it you don’t believe Kevin could have had anything to do with Rachel’s disappearance.”

  Tenby’s face revealed real shock. “Kevin? Oh, no, no. Impossible.”

  “Let’s talk about Emily and Graeme,” Stride said. “Did Rachel resent Graeme? Did she resent Emily bringing a new man into their lives?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Tenby said. “But it didn’t seem that way. They seemed to get along, at least for a while. I think Rachel thought she could use Graeme as a wedge against Emily, just the way Tommy did with her. Turn Graeme and Emily against each other, you see. And maybe it worked. It hasn’t been a very happy marriage.”

  “How so?” Maggie asked. “Fights? Infidelity?”

  Tenby held up one hand. “I’m afraid I’m getting thirsty. I need a glass of water. I can’t afford to have a sore throat before my sermon! Can I get the two of you anything?”

  Strid
e and Maggie both shook their heads. Tenby smiled and excused himself, disappearing into another room. They heard his footsteps tapping on a hard floor, then the bang of pipes as he turned on the water. He returned a few seconds later, sipping from a red plastic cup.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down again. He looked more relaxed. “Where were we?”

  “Emily and Graeme,” Maggie said.

  “Yes, yes. Well, I don’t think there’s been any violence in the marriage. I think it’s the opposite problem. No passion. There just doesn’t seem to be much love between them.”

  “Then why did they get married in the first place?” Stride asked.

  Tenby frowned. “Graeme is very successful. I think Emily may have been a little blinded by all those dollar signs on his paycheck. When you’ve struggled to make ends meet your whole life, it can be very tempting to imagine a world in which you’ve got considerably more leisure. She may have allowed some of her dreams to get in the way of reality.”

  “And Graeme?” Maggie asked. “No offense, but Emily doesn’t seem to be much of a catch for a bank honcho.”

  Tenby studied Maggie with an unusual smile, as if he found the question very amusing. “Well, who knows why anyone is attracted to anyone else? Emily is a lovely woman. Rachel didn’t get her good looks exclusively from Tommy, despite what Emily might say. Plus, there are a lot of men who are attracted to women who need to be taken care of. That may have been the case with Graeme.”

  Stride didn’t think that sounded like Graeme at all. “How did they meet?” he asked.

  “Oh, it was rather sweet, as Emily tells it,” Tenby said. His voice was suddenly louder, almost boisterous. It sounded forced. “Graeme had been at the bank for about a year, and I gather that most of the female staff considered him to be a very eligible bachelor. Good looks, a lot of self-confidence, and a high-paying position in the bank. What’s not to like? But he didn’t seem to take an interest in anyone. Emily mentioned him to me a couple of times, but she never dreamed he would look her way. She never even bothered trying to approach him. She was one of the few who didn’t try. Maybe that worked in her favor. He may have seen her as the only one who was immune to his charms. In any event, one day, Graeme approached her in the parking lot after work. He asked if she’d like to have a drink. It seems he had been attracted to her for some time and hadn’t had the courage to ask her out. Funny, isn’t it? But you never know.”